Protection
by sydneysages
Summary: When Connie is released from hospital, she thinks she's alone. But, thanks to Charlie, there's someone waiting at home for her. Someone who causes a whirlwind of emotions within her every time she even thinks his name. But can she forgive him long enough for him to help her?


This is terrible and a ramble and I have no idea what went on but it's vaguely Strachamp, set some time after the London episode and in response to a wonderful anon prompt on Tumblr!

* * *

"Morning, Connie."

Charlie's voice is gentle – gentler than she deserves – around the corner of her private room. Somehow, she's managed the impossible: to get a private room on the NHS. It's, unfortunately, a symbol of just how close to death she really came.

But now…now, what does she have to live for?

If she had died under the knife…well, would it really have been a travesty?

Forcing the melancholy thoughts out of her mind, Connie gives her best approximation of a smile in Charlie's direction as she struggles to shuffle herself up.

"No, no," Charlie says hurriedly, approaching the bed more rapidly to try and stop Connie moving. "Hey, you're the cardio specialist in here – what would _you_ say to a patient who had just undergone your operation?"

"We both know that doctors can't follow their own advice, Charlie," Connie replies, giving up her effort to move and instead just spreading the wrinkles on the bedspread out. It's all she can do to try and make her environment pristine – and to try and build back the image of a controlled, indestructible Connie Beauchamp.

"Yes, well, especially not when they're as stubborn as you," he responds, sinking into the chair next to her. "Have they said what's going to happen next?"

Connie shrugs, the corners of her lips turning downwards slightly as she does her best approximation of a neutral expression. "They're concerned I won't look after myself properly."

"A fair assessment, given you told _one_ person that you had cancer and then continued to work in an Emergency Department," Charlie counters.

"Touché," Connie responds. "Anyway, hopefully they'll recognise that I'm not an idiot shortly and let me leave. I just need Jac to come back to work and then I'll be ready to leave."

Charlie's silent for a beat too long when he replies. "So…have you told Grace yet?"

Connie's hand freezes halfway to her mouth. "I…what do you mean? Tell her what?" She does her best to make her tone neutral – but even she can't hide the hint of shock within her voice.

Fixing her with a stare that only Charlie could get away with, he leans backwards in his chair, apparently trying to appear nonchalant. Something he could probably get away with, if it wasn't for the fact that Connie Beauchamp was a woman who had known him for more than ten years.

"You almost _died_ , Connie – and she would have been none the wiser!"

"She hasn't responded to my last three calls, so I sincerely doubt that she would care." Connie sniffs, wondering if it's best to feign tiredness now, or come up with some other excuse.

Charlie snorts, though it's clearly not out of humour but rather disbelief. "And that shows how much you've lost control of reality. Because no matter what happens, a child will always feel the death of their parent."

That's a feeling that Connie knows far too well, but she decides to neglect mentioning that.

"Well, Charlie, what do you suggest?" Connie replies, her tone increasingly catty. "Should I send her voice memo, or do you think a text would suffice? Dear Grace: I know that you're terribly upset with me because I didn't come to Aspen and that's why you're ignoring my calls, but I just wanted to let you know that I almost died. PS, I've had to give Simba to the RSPCA as I can't stand up on my own, let alone look after a dog. Lots of love, Mummy. Would that work?"

Charlie stands up, and Connie can tell that he's clearly had enough of her. Good, she thinks bitterly, let her get back to stewing in her own mind about the transgressions she's made in her life. Get away from her, and let her be.

"There are a dozen ways to get in touch and you know it," he says finally, in a tone quite unlike Charlie Fairhead. He probably came up here to give her an inspirational speech and, instead, she's receiving an almost vicious lecture. "Don't feel sorry for yourself when you know there's something that you can do about it."

Connie ignores him, choosing instead to stare ahead at the blank wall in front of her. That'll teach him.

* * *

~x~

A little over a week later, she's almost ready for discharge. She's still unable to stand up properly on her own, but she can put her feet on the ground without wincing and that's progress.

As she applies her morning makeup, Charlie knocks on the door. It's only his second visit since they exploded at one another – and neither following visit has been exactly warm.

"Morning," he says.

"Morning," she responds, distractedly. "Anything I can help with? I hear there's been a few problems downstairs." More than a problem, she would wager, given that she's hearing about it as a patient – but Ethan Hardy seems too proud to even consider asking the Clinical Lead for advice. He seems to think it's his job permanently, rather than just temporarily…

"How did you…I mean, never mind," Charlie says hastily. "Have you spoken to Grace yet?"

"I mean, if he's struggling so much that there's been a new _blog_ written about his failings, Charlie, I think that that warrants some assistance," Connie continues, as though he hadn't spoken. "Otherwise, I'll be forced to speak with Jac Naylor about the issue – and we all know how little we want cardiothoracics getting involved in the Emergency Department." She speaks simply, knowing that, should it be her in charge of a surgery ward once again, she would be swooping down on the inexperienced Clinical Lead like a vulture.

"Connie." Charlie's voice is harsh. "If you haven't rang her by the end of the day, I will." An ultimatum. Surprising, from Charlie.

But it's still enough to put the fear of God in her, and her mascara wand pauses halfway to her eye.

"You wouldn't," she says simply. "I mean, you can't. You don't even have her number."

"I would – and I will. You have until three pm, Connie."

* * *

~x~

"Sam Strachan, Cardiothoracics." It's almost as if Charlie's dialled a well-spoken voicemail as Sam picks up the telephone call almost immediately. "Hello?"

"Ah, er, yes, hi, Sam, it's Charlie," Charlie replies, losing his train of thought temporarily. "Fairhead. From Holby?"

The atmosphere, even over the phone, turns wary as Sam responds. "Ah. Charlie. How are you?" It's clear that he's waiting for the real reason for the phone call – a reason that could only be to do with Connie Beauchamp.

Hesitating even now, Charlie takes a moment to respond. He's perfectly certain that this is the right move to make – to at least make Sam _aware_ of Connie's illness, even if he chooses not to act on it – but actually doing it, breaking Connie's confidence, is harder than he thought.

"We both know I'm not ringing for a social call or a catch up, it's about Connie," Charlie finally responds.

Sam heaves a huge sigh. "Let me guess, she's moved her home into the Emergency Department completely. Or she's actually realised she has a heart, and wants to figure out how to fix things with Grace. Well, to be perfectly honest, Charlie, I don't think she can. Grace is devastated."

"As devastated as she was when she was ripped away from Connie in the first place?" Charlie can't help himself, and he can feel the tension growing on the telephone.

"That was different," Sam argues. "I…I just needed some space. We'll be coming back, I'm sure, some point…"

"Space to clear your head to decide if you actually want to be a family?" Charlie continues, his tone harsher than he had expected.

Sam starts to respond, before Charlie speaks over him. "Look, Sam, I didn't mean to have this conversation. Yes, I'm ringing about Connie, but not about…whatever the hell it is that is between the pair of you. It's something else."

"What is it?" Sam seems more curious now than anything else – though there's still a hint of hardness within his voice that suggests he didn't appreciate Charlie spelling out the truth to him down the telephone. "And before you tell me, Charlie, I was going to come back. I do _care_ about her, you know."

"She almost died, Sam," Charlie says bluntly. "She had a heart tumour, started chemotherapy without telling anyone, almost died from an infection because she wouldn't stop working. You know that happened on the day she was preparing to fly out to Aspen – the day after chemo – so that she could see Grace for Christmas."

"What?" Sam almost shouts down the phone.

"There's more," Charlie adds grimly. "The tumour was inoperable. So she got herself down to London – not even recovered from the infection, might I add – to harass an old work colleague, who also wouldn't operate…almost drowned in the bath because her heart was _this close_ to giving out, then finally managed to get the operation. She's been through one hell of a lot."

"I just…cancer…" Sam replies, his words showing no correlation to Charlie's. "She…she saw what I went through. Why did she think she could _work_? Goddamnit." Something breaks in the distance at the other end of the phone, and Charlie worries for the furniture.

"Because it's Connie and she was alone and didn't want to let Grace down," Charlie says. "Plus, she didn't want to seem weak in front of her team – it's a classic Connie move."

"Has…has…that nurse been there for her?" Sam says through gritted teeth.

"Jacob?" Charlie clarifies, before snorting. "He wouldn't dare, Sam. He broke her heart before. She wouldn't let him near again."

"And, if what you say is true, I've broken her heart again," Sam points out. "What makes you think that I've got any better chance of – wait, what is it you want me to do?"

"I think it'd be wise if you come back to England, at least for a few weeks, to look after her," Charlie responds, his tone hesitant for the first time in the conversation. "She point blank refuses to tell Grace that she's ill – or was dying, or however you want to phrase it – because she'd rather Grace hated her and didn't think her infallible."

This time, Sam snorts. "I can see that," he admits. "When…when does she get out of hospital? I'm guessing she's being kept in for a while." He pauses, then adds, " _Wait_. Why didn't she let _me_ know?"

"Because, as you correctly said, you broke her heart," Charlie suggests. "And any time she's seemed weak to you, you've pounced. Don't try and deny it. She gets out on Friday, but I can try and get Jac to delay it until the following Monday. But… if you do come back, you need to ignore her when she tells you to go away. You need to stay and look after her."

He can hear the deliberation in Sam's tapping of his fingers against the side of the phone, but he waits, determined not to force the situation. If Sam chooses to come back to England for Connie, he can do it of his own free will. One thing Charlie doesn't want on his conscience is a guilt-ridden Sam returning to appease his mind, just to disappear as soon as she's on the road to recovery again.

"I'll ring Jac myself – but if you could let her know that I'll be in touch, that'll be great," Sam says finally, something unreadable in his voice. "Thanks for letting me know, Charlie, as I guess she'd never have let me know if she had her way. I'll be in touch."

"Sam, before you go," Charlie blurts out. "Why are you coming back?"

There's confused silence on the other end of the line. "I'm coming back because she needs me," is Sam's response. "It's as simple as that."

"And will you be going back after she's better?"

"I…I don't know, Charlie," Sam admits. "It depends on her. If she's willing to give me a second – or a third or a seventeenth, whoever knows what we'll be on by then – chance, then I won't be leaving. If she can't move past my mistakes, then there'll be no point. If there's one thing I've learnt over the years, it's that I can't change Connie's mind. She has to want to do that herself."

A fair point, Charlie concedes in his mind. "Right, well, ring me back if you need anything – just remember the time difference, especially as there's a baby in the house at the moment."

"I look forward to hearing the story behind that," Sam replies, a note of humour in his voice. "Bye, Charlie."

* * *

~x~

She isn't sure why she's kept in until Monday – a point she argues until she's blue in the face, having done enough statistical analysis on her own notes to know that she's improved enough to not need a bed in the hospital any longer – but she's kept in regardless. Jac almost seems amused at the evil stares that Connie provides any time she pops in, and Connie has a distinct feeling that there's something that her fellow Clinical Lead is keeping from her.

But, finally, she's allowed to leave under the steam of her own two feet, rather than a wheelchair, and she disappears as rapidly as possible, keeping her eyes focused on the ground so as to avoid eye contact with any of her former colleagues – or anyone who could possibly know her enough to gossip about her. Which, in this hospital, involves anyone who has heard her name.

She hails a taxi and climbs in, noticing a text from Charlie, suggesting that he might be waiting at her house when she gets back. Which could be worse – it could be a text from Sam Strachan.

She's a little suspicious that Charlie pressed so much for her to contact Grace – which she did try, however tentatively – and then didn't mention it on any of his subsequent visits. Perhaps he _did_ follow through on his threat, but she doubts it. There's no way that he could have found out Grace's number, given about two people in England currently have it.

So, as she begins the half an hour commute across Holby, she leans her head against the frame of the car and begins to wonder how she can pick the pieces of her life up – and, in all honesty, whether she even wants to.

* * *

~x~

She's right. Charlie Fairhead is waiting outside of her house – along with a BMW which seems too new to ever feasibly be Charlie's car.

Her heart sinks as she realises what he's done.

"Now, don't get mad at me," he says immediately as he approaches the back door of the taxi to help her out.

"I don't need your help," she spits at him, deliberately ignoring his proffered arm. "You _know_ what he did, Charlie, and you invited him anyway! Do you really hate me that much?"

He shoots her a perplexed look. "I didn't invite him. He came of his own accord. All _I_ did was let him know that you had cancer, like he did."

"It doesn't matter that he had cancer," she mutters. "He's here to gloat and then disappear again as soon as he knows that I'm not dying and he can continue to hurt me without feeling guilty. That's it."

"Don't judge him before you see him, Connie," Charlie warns, helping her out of the car despite her protest.

She snorts, using the noise as an excuse to try and get her breath back. It's harder than she thought, getting out of the car, and she's secretly thankful for Charlie's presence. Not that she'll admit that, of course. "He can't have changed that much in six months, Charlie. But he's clearly still an _excellent_ smooth talker, if he's persuaded you around to his point of view."

"Now, now, Connie," Charlie says pacifyingly, walking slowly next to her. She knows that he's noticed that she hasn't let go of his arm, and she's thankful that he doesn't comment on it. "Hear him out. And at least you get to see Grace."

That gets Connie's attention – and she knows she reacts in the opposite way to how he expected.

"No," she whispers, her throat closing in. "No. If she's there, I'm not going in, Charlie. She can't see me like this."

Charlie frowns. "I don't know what Sam's told her," he admits. "But she knows that you're ill, Connie, and she understands that that's the reason you've not really been in touch recently."

"I don't care," Connie says, firmly. The taxi's already turned around, but she's wondering how quickly she can get down the road to the nearest taxi rank to take her anywhere but here.

"She's worried about you." Another voice joins the fray, and Connie freezes as she hears Sam Strachan's voice in person for the first time since August. "As I am."

"Sam," Connie spits out, putting as much venom into her tone as possible. "Good to know that you actually remember where Holby is."

He arches an eyebrow, and she has to admit that she hates how he makes her feel: a mixture of emotions, it's never been clear cut. There's a swirling mixture of different emotions which form whenever she thinks of Sam Strachan; they're all always present, it just depends on the nature of their relationship as to which is the most prominent. Today – as for every day since he left – it's hatred. Except, today, there's a tinge of embarrassment because, no matter what's happened, he's never seen her this weak.

Even after the crash, she was okay. Wrecked emotionally and totally focused on Grace, of course, but physically she was fine. He wasn't here when she almost died in the building collapse, and she doesn't even think he knows about when she was arrested on suspicion of murder. He's never seen her at anything less than perfectly put together – and he's never seen her at anything less than on top of her game. Even during his brief stint as Medical Director, the only person who really understood the delicate balance of power was her.

And now, everything's different. From the fleeting appearance of pity in his eyes, swiftly covered to pretend as though everything's the same, to the fact that he's in her house, touching her things, it shows that she no longer has the power. She isn't in control; she's reliant on him. And she hates it already.

"Let's at least save this until we're inside the house, yeah?" Sam suggests, his tone carefully neutral in that _infuriating_ way of his. "Come on, Con. Let me help."

"I don't need your help," she retorts, letting go of Charlie as she approaches the steps. Sam comes down to help, but she simply holds a palm up at him, imploring him to stop. Mercifully, he does. "And it's _Connie_."

* * *

~x~

She doesn't tell Grace about the cancer, just that Mummy's ill but getting better. Connie has to admit, it's nice being able to sit in her living room again, getting away from the overpowering scent of antibiotics and antiseptic gel, with her daughter in her arms. There were only a few tears on Grace's behalf, and a short period of tension where her daughter refused to believe that her mother had been ill, before she had apologised to Connie for not answering her calls.

Wisely, Sam stays away from the living room during this time, though it's clear that he's asked Grace to keep an eye on Connie. She doesn't question this – doesn't question what he's doing – but she does question how long they're going to be here.

"Has your school given you lots of homework to do?" Connie asks, subtly trying to probe how long Sam's going to let her be happy for before he rips Grace away.

Grace shrugs. "Dad's sorting it. I did ask before I left, but they looked really confused when I asked, so. Like, I'll ask him later but it's nice not to have to do any work for a day or two."

"Well, if you've not got any now, we can do some science work?" Connie suggests. She needs to do something to make her feel like less of an invalid, something that gives her some form of control.

"Maybe later," Grace replies, and it's clear to Connie that she doesn't see the other side of the homework. For her, she clearly just thinks it's a chance for Connie to get to connect with science again.

Blinking back the tears, Connie shrugs. "Okay." It's hard not to be bitter in front of her daughter – especially as the overwhelming emotion she continues to feel is joy at seeing Grace once again – so she tries to think of something to change the subject to. "Why don't we read a book?"

"Or we could watch television?" Grace suggests, picking up the remote without waiting for her mother to respond. "Come on, Mum. Dad says I'm in charge, and I think that you'd be much happier watching rubbish than trying to get me to read pride and prejudice. Don't you agree?"

* * *

~x~

By the time Grace goes to bed – a little after seven, surprisingly early for the near-teenage girl – Connie's struggling to keep her energy up. She needs to, because this is the first time that Sam is going to come near her and she has to start the fight now or she never will, but she doesn't think she can. It's taking more effort than she thought to just breathe, let alone stand up, and for the first time she feels that she should be taking the advice she issued to thousands of patients over the years.

"Hey," Sam says cautiously, standing in the doorway to the living room, his arms folded. His expression is guarded, but there's still an element of concern in there that seems alien to Connie. Not for many years does she think she's seen worry about _her_ in Sam Strachan's eyes, if ever.

"Only coming in now, Sam?" Connie snipes immediately, hoping for some form of adrenaline rush to power her through this argument. "I'm surprised. Thought you would have made me start this conversation with Grace in the room to temper my anger."

Sam smiles, his expression becoming carefully neutral. He's clearly trying to become the model doctor/carer figure, and he's failing miserably at caring for _her_.

"I thought about it," he admits, "but you're going to do this anyway, so we might as well get it out of the way early on. Plus," he adds, one corner of his mouth twitching, "I know the meds you're on. You'll be too tired to fight in about ten minutes, so you can't exactly go full Beauchamp on me."

She cocks an eyebrow, her mouth opening involuntarily in horror. "Surprising amount of logic applied to a decision from a man who can't connect his mouth to his actions," she retorts, choosing her words carefully.

His eyes narrow as he approaches the sofa, taking a seat at the far end: close enough that he can help her if she needs it, far enough away to be out of her reach. Sometimes, Connie has to admit, Sam Strachan is a smart man.

"And what's that supposed to mean?"

Clearly not _that_ smart.

"Well, I'm thinking about one time in August in particular," Connie comments, doing her best to make her tone neutral. It's too much effort to maintain a snarky tone – and a neutral Connie Beauchamp is a terrifying thing in itself. "One day, you said that we'd be a family. Three days later, you were on the other side of the world, telling our daughter that it was my idea. Not exactly the smoothest link there, was it?"

Sam nods. "You're right," he admits. "And I'll admit that openly. I was wrong to do that, and I'm sorry."

Connie just stares at him, her mouth agape; she can't tell if she's hearing things, or if Sam Strachan has really admitted fault. Either way, it's knocked the wind out of her sails – and she's on the backfoot.

"I shouldn't have taken her – because that was the mistake I made," Sam explains. "Ask me anything and I'll tell you the truth." For once in her life, Connie can almost believe that he's being sincere.

"Why did you leave?" She whispers, unable (or unwilling) to muster any form of defence. He can attack her whilst her guard is down, and she probably won't do anything about it: she needs to know the answer to this. It might destroy her, but at least then she'll know that her hatred of Sam is justified.

"Because I was scared," Sam admits. "I got a glimpse of what we could be – a joint force, rather than two separate hurricanes – and I didn't know what to do. I didn't know what to feel. So I went for my default – and that was to get away from it all and get my mind together."

"That's your default?" Connie finds herself retorting. "I thought your default was to hurt me as badly as possible."

He meets her gaze and she can recognise the shock within his. "That's never been my default, Connie," Sam replies simply. "My default's to run away. I thought you knew that. It takes me that long to get my head together sometimes that I forget why I've gone."

"And then you come back and act as if you're indestructible," Connie whispers back.

"Not quite true," Sam replies. "Every time I come back, I'm less likely to leave."

His response brings her back to reality, and Connie coughs a little. She doesn't want to have an emotional conversation with Sam – she wants to hate his guts indefinitely, and that seems unlikely to happen if they continue this conversation.

"Why did you come back?"

"Because when I heard that you'd almost died, I realised that running away was pointless," Sam admits. "Plus, I'm furious with you."

That stops Connie in her tracks. " _Excuse_ me? You're furious with _me_?"

He snorts, his expression turning steely. "Yes. You saw what cancer did to me and yet you kept it from me. I couldn't have done anything for you – I mean, I probably could, actually, but anyway – but I could have been there for you." His voice drops, "like you were for me. Before."

"I don't need you," Connie replies simply. "You left and I survived. I've made it until now and I don't need you to look after me now."

"But…"

"No, Sam," Connie replies, her tone increasingly firm. "I can take care of myself just fine. The difference between our experiences of cancer are essentially that, when you were ill, _I_ hadn't disappeared. I had always been there. It's only you who chooses to run."

"You're not listening to what I'm saying," Sam retorts, his voice growing louder with every word. "I love you, Connie. Fuck. It's true, and you know it. And you could have died – without letting Grace or me know."

His words, once again, knock the wind out of her sails. Because, for all of the whirling of emotion that she feels towards him, she's never once expected him to feel anything other than hatred and contempt for her. She's suspected something more at times, but he always lets her down afterwards.

She smiles weakly. "You have a very funny way of showing it," she murmurs. "And every time you come back, you manage to hide it."

"I hide it because you wouldn't believe me if I ever even hinted at it," Sam points out.

Gathering her thoughts together, Connie struggles to pull herself to her feet. It's a struggle – she doesn't quite have the ability to feel both of her legs, because of how she was sitting. But this conversation is the opposite of what she expected, and she doesn't know what to say. Because, for all she could contemplate Sam in her future, he's broken her heart more times than she can count. And that isn't something she can forget easily.

"And because it's easier for you to womanise and do the things that Sam Strachan loves to do," Connie says slowly, in between deep breaths. Sitting on the sofa for half the day has been easy in comparison to this. "Look, Sam. I'm only going to say this once. I hate you with every fibre of my being. You destroyed me, and then expect to waltz back into my life without a moment's hesitation." As she notices his mouth about to open, she swiftly continues, "you can stay as long as Grace is staying, simply because I would rather her think things are amiable between us. But know that, no matter what I say, I despise you more than anyone."

Before he can say anything, she begins the slow walk towards the spare room downstairs, aware that attempting the stairs would be suicidal.

"Connie," Sam calls after her. "Do you mean that?"

"Every word," she promises, though as she speaks, she crosses her fingers behind her back. He doesn't need to know what a whirlwind of emotions he creates within her – because she won't let anything other than hate rise to the top ever again.

Because, truth be told, she doesn't think that she could handle him breaking her heart again.

(She sleeps fitfully, every moment consumed with the words _we can be a family_ , and she knows that Sam needs to leave soon, or she'll never be able to keep to her word.)

* * *

This could become a twoshot or it could just stay as a oneshot, let me know what you think!

Please send any prompts here or on tumblr at conniebaechamp xoxoxo


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